


For the Rightness of It

by epkitty



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Christmas Party, Confessions, First Kiss, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The oldest trick in the book. ...Okay, so mistletoe isn't the OLDEST trick in the book, but it's gotta be close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

McCoy was having considerably less fun than usual at the Christmas party. Oh, it wasn’t a ‘Christmas party’ in name; it was ‘Winter Festival’ or ‘New Year’ or whatever other bland, non-denominational phrase the Politically Correct had cooked up. But there was an evergreen tree with glowing lights, walls stretched with garlands of holly, and ceilings spattered with mistletoe. Goddamned fucking mistletoe.

The halls were decked and no one could tell McCoy it wasn’t a Christmas party.

He’d made his customary appearance, sneaking a small plate of cookies and a duraplast mug of the eggnog that had been helped along by Scott’s administrations. He let Christine Chapel corner him under some mistletoe for a friendly kiss, and he’d let himself get caught up in the conversations that invariably called him away from the door through which he’d intended to exit but nevertheless seemed to get further and further away from.

The reality of the situation, his own reality – one which he’d abandoned examining too closely – was that he was waiting.

He waited while Sulu and Uhura came in and chatted and partied and left.

He waited while M’Benga dragged him into a discussion on some new physiological study.

He waited through the carols and he waited through the toasts.

He waited until the Captain and his ostensible shadow finally joined the festivities. The pair paused just within the door, unknowingly loitering under a sprig of the damned plant that had set its whispered workings into McCoy’s head the moment he’d seen it.

McCoy, simultaneously embittered and amused, not to mention helped along by all the eggnog, decided that now was as good a time as any to leave the party, and to make a pit stop on the way.

“Glad to see you gentlemen finally decided to grace us with your elite company.”

“Sounds like you’ve been waiting up, Bones.” Kirk let loose his charming smile and graciously accepted the proffered cup.

McCoy ignored the pang the idle statement set to ringing through him and laughed it off, tucking his empty hands behind him. “Sure, just to see if this one would show,” he said with a nod toward the First Officer.

“I consider it logical, on occasion, to indulge in the social activities of my fellow crew; it engenders a proper sense of camaraderie and respectful consideration for others’ beliefs and traditions, Doctor.”

“No kidding,” McCoy responded as dryly as he could despite how impressed he inevitably was at the Vulcan’s logic. But, as always, he found cause to dispute. “It would be beyond your capabilities, no doubt, to attempt any pleasure in the association.”

Before Spock could answer, Kirk asked, “Won’t… you two give this up? For Christmas? For me?”  
 McCoy gave a generous roll of his expressive eyes. “Pour on the charm like that, and we can’t refuse, Jim.” But this remark held a warmth that was lacking in his addresses to the First Officer. “And as for you, Spock, I never knew you held such little distinction among your kissing partners.”

“Doctor? I fail to—”

A single finger upward indicated his meaning and his intent as McCoy stepped in close, closer than he’d ever dared for any reason not born of necessity or emergency, to kiss the alien. He had aimed for Spock’s concave cheek, but at just the wrong moment – or just the right one – Spock looked back down from the ceiling, and McCoy’s lips landed at the corner of a surprised mouth.

Vulcan skin was so hot.

The Doctor suddenly found that it was far closer than he’d intended or desired, but could only relish the flush that ran through him at the smooth heat that remained immobile under the press of his curious lips. McCoy pulled hastily away before anything more drastic overtook him.

Laughter slightly forced, McCoy clapped the Vulcan on the back, hard, and stepped to Kirk’s side, joking, “I wouldn’t just stand there, Spock, unless you want the whole crew lining up to get a peck in!”

Eyeing an apparently interested Nurse Chapel with a passel of other speculating crewmembers, Spock exited quickly, nearly colliding with the automatic doors before they could open.

“You really know how to clear a room of Vulcans, Bones.”

= = = = =

Lying in bed, McCoy knew he would be second-guessing that decision for a long time to come. Would it be taken in the joking manner intended? He had thought it would be, but Spock hadn’t just raised a brow and stepped pointedly away. He’d left; he’d practically bolted.

McCoy sat up enough to retrieve the glass from his bedside table. He drained the tumbler of its dosage, hoping that it would be the one too many that would send him off to a dreamless sleep and a cranky morning.

But as he lay there the glass fell harmlessly to the carpeted floor and he stared at the Saurian brandy sitting in the bottom of its asymmetrical bottle, willing it to do its work. If it didn’t…

And damn it all, there it was. Such thorough inebriation before unconsciousness allowed the suppressed thoughts to surface, to pool in a place of conscious festering, to be gnawed at until chewed thin and ragged. Thoughts not of anything productive in all truth, but instead circular recognition of those feelings that so shamed him, that guilted him into these one-night stands with the liquor of Sauria, the only times – scrambled and painful as they were – when he could acknowledge them.

Suffice it to say – he finally let the frightful thought take root and manifest in lucid detail – anger and irritation were the safest of his emotions regarding Spock.

Damn the Vulcan and his sexy pointed ears.

McCoy had never much cared about sexual desire, except the brief flashes of pleasure it afforded, and he’d never much cared the form love took, until that love alternately flared and quailed under the luminescence of an alien without the inclination or even the capacity to love him back.

It was this last thought that finally heralded him toward long-awaited sleep that, thanks to the faculties of the foreign brandy, was indeed dreamless.

= = = = =

“Spock, it’s me; can I come in?”

“Enter, Captain.”

Kirk only took one step inward, effectively keeping the door open as he took in the sight of the Vulcan at meditation. “Spock, I’m sorry to disturb; we can talk tomorrow…”

“It’s all right, Captain. I have need of your… presence.” His natural grace leant Spock’s rising to his feet a dance-like beauty.

“I only… I came to inquire after you, Spock. If McCoy was out of line, then I don’t have a problem—”

“No, Jim. He was no more so than anyone at a human festivity.”

“Yet…” and Kirk firmly entered the room, “you ran out of there like a bat outta hell.”

“I was, of course, taken aback at a gesture of such intimacy performed so blithely in a public forum.”

Kirk let the smile surface. “Is that your way of saying you were… embarrassed, Mr. Spock?”

“I would never succumb so readily to such base emotion.”

“Well that’s a relief,” Kirk tried to keep a straight face. “Still, I can talk to him, if…”

“That won’t be necessary, Jim. But I thank you for your willingness to intervene on my behalf.”

“All right.” Kirk examined his friend for a moment, just standing aimlessly in the center of his quarters. “You said you had need of my presence, Spock.”

“Yes, I… Sometimes, the company of a friend…”

Still smiling, Kirk asked, “How about a game of chess? Take your mind off things?”

A faint look of surprise preceded Spock’s declaration of, “Yes. I would be… amenable.”

= = = = =

In the morning, McCoy was hungover, lovesick, and pissed off. He punched himself with the detox hypo always kept to hand and rolled out of bed toward the shower, swearing at himself under his breath.

To his utter disgust, the headache faded away to be replaced by a persistent arousal only enhanced by the beads of hot water jetting over him from the showerhead. The normally routine and clinical actions of cleansing his body only served to augment the unwanted physical sensations. After a disgustingly short attempt at dispelling the stimulating threat of ecstasy, McCoy gave in, taking himself to hand as he leaned back against the warmed shower wall, lifting his closed eyes to the hot rain.

A lifetime invested with understanding of his own body allowed him, if nothing else, a mercifully short bout of self-stimulation before the orgasm rushed out of him, resulting in little other than pure relief, without much excitement or thrill.

= = = = =

Kirk too easily recognized that Spock employed as much energy as possible over the next week avoiding the Doctor.

The human pair came to a mutual but unspoken decision that a discussion was in order.

“You think I went too far?”

It was a sign of deep friendship that they could begin in the middle of a conversation they had never started.

Kirk shrugged wholeheartedly and thought about his answer. “I dunno, Bones. I waited barely an hour before talking to him.”

“You—”

“I had to, the way he took off. I told him, you know, if you’d been out of line I would have given you a tongue-lashing.” Kirk shook his head. “But he said no, he wasn’t offended, wasn’t bothered. Didn’t want me to talk to you about it. I really just don’t know, Bones. I believed him, of course, thought nothing of it. Til I saw…”

“Saw he’d been treatin’ me like the plague.”

“Yeah.”

The conversational silence was stretched by mutual imbibing of liquor and the background music Kirk demanded from the computer.

“Think I should apologize?”

Another shrug. “If he lets you get close enough.” It was meant to be a joke, but fell sourly flat.

= = = = =

The bridge was the last place to hold a private conversation. But it was the only place McCoy managed to be within sight of Spock for more than a minute, since the Vulcan was magically never in the Officer’s mess, nor in his quarters at any reasonable hour, nor within a seeming mile of Sickbay.  
 After three more days, McCoy gave it up as a bad deal and settled for sniping at Spock’s logically brilliant ideas at every available opportunity.

For a short time, about ten seconds, Kirk thought everything was back to normal, but this conclusion immediately proved false when he recognized a new vitriol in the Doctor’s voice, and quiet defensiveness in Spock’s.

They hadn’t made up and tensions between them had only grown worse.

As the two debated both the morality and efficacy of Spock’s latest plan, Kirk’s quick eyes flashed between them, as well as to the curious gazes of other crew on bridge. There was a new Yeoman hovering near; she was waiting for the Captain’s signature, but was hesitant of coming between the debate, which had situated itself straddling both the Command Chair and the man in it. Chekhov exchanged a nervous look with another ensign, both of them uncomfortable with the situation on the Bridge. Lastly, Kirk hooked the gaze of his communications officer, who rolled her eyes and shrugged like a resigned babysitter.

“Gentlemen!” Kirk barked, hushing the room in an instant. He didn’t quite know what to do or say after that. It was absurdly clear to him that McCoy felt bad for what he had done and offended at Spock’s avoidance, and that Spock felt _something_ about what McCoy had done and guilty for avoiding him. It was also clear to Kirk that the underlying tension between the two had burgeoned at their first meeting and only twisted tighter with every disparaging glance and careless word. He knew that there was more to it: respect, trust, some degree of friendship. But those things had been overtaken by the bitter recrimination of undesignated feelings. Kirk flashed the disappointed glare he’d reserved for just the two of them and commanded, “I order you both to leave my bridge until you can afford one another the professional respect deserved without biting each other’s heads off!”

McCoy looked as though he would argue, but thought better of it.

Spock looked as though he would simply refuse.

But, under the heavy stares of every eye in the room, they reluctantly acquiesced, each turning on the spot, taking different steps up to the higher level, and walking side by side to the turbolift as though alone.

As the doors whooshed closed, Kirk heard the relieved sighs of his crew. He punched the toggle on his chair console. “Kirk to engineering.”

“Scott here.”

“Scotty,” Kirk said, the smile audible in his voice. “Halt the bridge turbolift.”

A pause preceded Scott’s, “But sir…”

“Now, Mr. Scott.”

“…Aye, sir.” His reluctance could be heard over the comm. line, but he would do as his Captain ordered.

After seconds of smothered laughter from various crewmen, Uhura informed the Captain, “Sir, Mr. Spock is expressing concern that his turbolift is malfunctioning.”

“Well, tell him that he’s right, lieutenant. We’ll get Mr. Scott on it as soon as possible.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Chekhov covered his mouth, but the howls of his laughter could not be suppressed.

Kirk signed the Yeoman’s padd and flashed her a reassuring smile.

= = = = =

With obvious reluctance and a little confusion, Spock switched off the comm. line. He eyed McCoy with defensive posture and darting dark eyes. The Doctor stood on the other side of the lift, as far from the alien as possible without being completely impertinent.

“I do not find the Captain’s tactic for our reconciliation amusing.”

“Well, there’s somethin’ we can agree on,” McCoy grudgingly acknowledged.

They both stared at the cylindrical walls.

Spock again thumbed the comm. unit. “Lieutenant, how is Mr. Scott coming along?”

Uhura’s calm and pleasant voice emitted from the speaker after a moment’s silence. “I’m not sure, Mr. Spock. Let me contact engineering for you.” The line went dead, and the officers resumed staring at nothing for a full minute before the voice again greeted them. She sounded bewildered. “I’m afraid it’s not a simple malfunction, gentlemen. I’ll keep you updated.”

“What is the nature of the fault, Lieutenant?”

“Mr. Scott did not specify, but he didn’t sound concerned. I get the idea it’s time consuming, but not difficult.”

If Spock had been prone to sighing, he would have.

Aggravation motivating his heavy steps, McCoy stepped closer to the unit. “Uhura,” he said, tone laced with a complicated array of emotions, “Would you tell our Captain the joke is wearing thin and we have jobs to return to?”

A pause.

“What joke, Doctor?”

McCoy growled and punched the switch off. “Those conspirin’, connivin’, crazy bastards are in cahoots! We’re gonna be the laughin’ stocks of the ship!”

“I believe we already have been, for some time, Doctor.”

McCoy grunted, crossed the lift, and turned his back to the wall. Using the control rod for support, he slid wearily to the floor where he crossed his legs and hung his head.

Spock alternately watched the weary man, the unchanging level lights, and the silent control panel.

The Doctor sighed and his whole body slumped as he let the tension loose, or tried to. He snuck a hand up to his neck, pushing irritably at the usual muscles, the ones that never quit arguing that stress was the most painful part of his job.

Accepting the unspoken ceasefire, Spock lowered himself to the floor as well, his legs crossed under him, hands steepled before him, pointy elbows on pointy knees. “I believe the Captain is right. We were out of line.”

“Yeah,” McCoy agreed all too willingly, his head tipped back, closed eyes aimed upward. He opened those watchful eyes, traced the simple Starfleet patterns and lights on the circular ceiling. “You’re right.” Then an ironic smile cracked over the expressive features. “Think we can shape up next time we, uh, ‘disagree’ in front of the Captain?”

“I shall make all efforts to avoid pointing out your ineptitude.”

Picking up on the humor formerly lacking, McCoy let loose a small laugh. “Gee, thanks. I’ll be sure to do the same.”

Spock stood in a single, swift movement and turned on the switch. “According to my calculations, Mr. Scott should be nearly finished with his repairs, Lieutenant,” he said, illogically preferring the illusion of malfunction.

A moment later, Uhura agreed, “It seems that he is, at that, Commander. You’ll be moving shortly.”

With a smooth lurch, the turbolift resumed its descent, McCoy gained his feet, and they went their separate ways at the nearest deck, with a hesitancy bordering on reluctance.

And though they’d reached a truce, they still felt as though nothing had been resolved.

= = = = =

Spock knew the crimson trim and archaic trappings of his quarters would shock most of the crew were they to see the Vulcan’s bedchamber. The paraphernalia and decoration hardly bespoke logical necessity, or the ideal some humans had that Vulcan habitat would – by virtue of their race – maintain a nearly clinical barrenness in its Spartan nature.

But his Captain had persuaded him to emulate the tone of his home as a way of remembrance and honor. As usual, Kirk managed to talk him into it. So the artifacts migrated from storage to Spock’s walls, and the drapes were shipped in from Vulcan.

He admitted to no one but himself that the little niche of his bedroom was now more welcoming than it had ever been before.

He lay on his side in bed, motionless, silent, taking in the folds of red, soothing and dangerous like the hot sun, foreign like alien blood, and rich, like the copper sands of Vulcan.

Meditation did little these last days, other than serve as a temporary focus for as long as the reflection lasted. The hours spent in calculation and study provided sufficient distraction. But the in-between times: the thoughtless seconds alone in a rushing turbolift, the long haul from some lab to another office, and this minutes-long era dividing awake from asleep… these unoccupied moments cultivated the limbo of a confused and occasionally very human mind.

It is amazing what can be learned in a single touch.


	2. Part 2

“I’m glad you two worked it out.”

“Worked what out, Jim?” McCoy inquired, unmistakably irritable, and feigning absorbed interest in the new disease that lay under his microscope.

Kirk, playing with an empty hypospray, stood and prepared a lecture. He advanced with a menacing step to loom over his friend. “Bones…”

“We just let it go, okay Jim? Friends can do that.”

“You didn’t talk about it?”

McCoy didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

Kirk shook his head and muttered something McCoy was better off not hearing.

“I’ll apologize, okay, Jim? Now that he’s half-normal again, okay?”

“Okay,” Kirk agreed. “See that you do. It’ll clear the air, don’t you think?”

Again, the Doctor did not answer.

Grumbling, Kirk retook his seat, picked up the abandoned hypo. “So. Aren’t you finished with that thing, yet?”

“No.” McCoy pushed several buttons on the diagnostic gadget and resized the magnification.

“I thought everyone was cured.”

“Everyone IS cured. Jim, go to bed.”

“I haven’t even had dinner yet, Bones. What’s got to you?” he asked, leaning forward, curious of McCoy’s short temper.

“C’mon, it’s been a long day. Everyone’s been on edge. And I’m still a little uptight,” he confessed, backing away from his work to rub at his neck, right where it hurt, having bent over patients and scopes all day.

“Well, you should calm down. Get yourself some food, and go to bed too. You’re right; it has been a long day. All this,” Kirk waved a lazy hand, “can be taken care of tomorrow.”

McCoy shook his head, but it wasn’t a denial. “Sometimes I forget,” he broke off with a pained laugh. “All the trouble we get into, you’d think I wouldn’t. But I forget how easy it is to die out here. And me, the psychologist!” He laughed again. “You sent him up in the nick of time, Jim. Another minute… hell, half that…”

“I know,” Kirk said, all seriousness. “Spock’s a tough one. Nothing’s kept him down yet.”

“Thank god for that.”

“But you still won’t talk to him?”

McCoy glared, and finally gave in.

= = = = =

Truth was, McCoy was more than happy to just let it go. More he thought about it, the more he recoiled from the idea of mentioning that kiss and trying to talk about it, explain himself. He knew that anything he said would be a lie, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to tell the truth.

All the same, when that long day following both alien illness and multiple injuries finally ended with the pair of them sitting slumped in McCoy’s office, the Doctor knew that this was the most neutral private ground they were going to get and it was time to fess up. He pushed away the last reports and apparently pulled a bottle of brandy from nowhere. “A drink, Spock?”

“No, Doctor.”

McCoy shrugged. Spock rarely drank but McCoy always asked as a matter of habit and – sometimes – respect. He poured himself a portion into the traditional glass: a shallow bowl with the blue pyramid base.

“It is late,” Spock said, rising to his feet.

McCoy, though tired, still caught the Vulcan in sharp and wary eyes. “Stay,” he asked.

Halting before the door, Spock turned to face him and hitched up a brow in question.

Fingering the foreign glass, McCoy eyed the swirling liquor within, chasing around the words he’d prepared earlier, wondering what had happened to them over the course of the crazy day. “I’m glad you’re still with us, Spock.” He looked up, examining the spot on the Vulcan’s neck that had been a flowing brackish wound when he’d been beamed up.

“I, too, am pleased to be here.”

Nodding, as though he’d expected the answer, McCoy pursed his lips unhappily, knowing he was stalling for time, and that Spock would soon leave. “I, uh, wanted to talk to you about what happened at the party, Spock. If I’d known you were gonna… take it personal, I wouldn’t…”

Spock didn’t help him along. Just stood there, staring.

“Dammit Spock, I’m trying to apologize!” Why did this creature always bring out the worst in him?

“Not trying very hard, Doctor.”

“Ach!” It wasn’t even a word, just an ejaculation of surprise and the frayed end of his patience. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Spock bowed his head in silent acceptance, and also in contemplation. He did not leave. “I was not offended.”

Puzzled, his clever blue eyes narrowed and McCoy unconsciously tilted his head and parted his lips to speak. “You weren’t…”

“No.” Spock shrugged. “Human customs, human emotions… human instincts and impulse… I am quite used to them, Doctor. I may question, even tease,” he admitted. “But I am rarely disturbed by what I do not understand.”

By now mystified, McCoy shook his head and drained his small cup. “So what? I kissed you – in a show of utter friendship and derision, I might add – and you decide to take off?”

“Friendship and… derision?”

“With us, they go hand in hand,” McCoy granted the irony, pushing the cup away to cross his arms. “And you?”

“It was not the act that spurred my exit,” he confessed, “but what I learned from it.” Dark eyes, previously averted, finally turned on suddenly suspecting blue.

“What you learned…” He could relive the moment in his mind, the quick touch, the frozen heat. Skin to skin. …Mind to mind. McCoy swallowed and averted his eyes as a muscle set to twitching in his cheek. The blush crept up as realization set in. He was utterly exposed, and the shame burned up through him like magma.

“I was surprised. At how much you… savored the short contact between us.”

“Oh, Spock.” The last of his dignified mask fell away and McCoy dropped his reddening face into broad, surgeon’s hands. “I never meant for you to know.” The last of his swiftly fleeing control had leaked out of his voice, this most damning confession all raw emotion and scratched through the torn flesh of a too tense throat, the terror of it devastating him in seconds.

Spock’s actions were entirely out of character, if only the Doctor could have spared a moment to look away from his own disgrace to see them.

The Vulcan eyed the room speculatively, the lines of his expressive face tight and controlled, but he looked round the place as though seeing it for the first time, stalling. He evaluated each seat available to him, and finally moved to stand behind a plain metal chair with four straight legs, an escapee from older Starfleet-regulation furniture and the purging that came with such changeovers. Uncertainty lined the previously guarded eyes as pale hands alighted atop the back of the chair.

Spock had to wait for the decision to be made, calculating all the variables before he agreed with himself, even if only marginally. He lifted the chair, let the front legs scrape irritably over the floor as he shifted it closer to the object of his supreme focus. He let the chair fall into place beside the Doctor’s, more heavily than was necessary, and he again found cause for delay before sitting perpendicular to the doctor, facing McCoy’s profile.

Adopting the man’s pose, leaning forward with elbows braced on knees, Spock let his hands fall between his spread legs, limp and unmoving. He looked closely at the bowed head before him. Close enough, nearly close enough to kiss.

“Leonard.”

A sound stifled halfway up the throat was cut off before it could be identified, and McCoy trembled.

Spock observed – less dispassionately than any witnesses would have believed – the drop that landed with a flat splat on the dull gray floor, having snuck between the insufficient barrier of latticed fingers.

Spock forced himself to continue upon the path he had suddenly set for himself, wondering with idle human imaginings whether fate had a hand, had led him to this path with the inescapable guidance of determined destiny. “I always knew you felt strong feelings for me.” His voice was rational. Even calm. “I never knew… until…” He had to start over. “I never guessed those feelings were a shield… for even stronger ones.” He reached out, as though to pry with his Vulcan strength human hands from human features. But whatever action he might have taken, he eventually aborted, returning the pale hand to its place. “Irritation was a smart mask for desire, Doctor. And grudging respect an even better one for…”

“You can’t even say it,” McCoy accused, voice wrecked with his efforts to keep from falling apart.

“I can. I can say it, indeed. But it does frighten me.”

“You, Spock?” And that confession let McCoy look up, revealing the watery blue eyes that peered from a paling face. “Well. I’m sorry if I frighten you.”

“You may find it hard to believe, but you yourself have never frightened me. It is what you offer.”

“I don’t offer you anything, Spock.”

“Incorrect.” Having found safety in the rigid confines of words, imprecise though they could sometimes be, Spock continued with increasing confidence. “It may be an unwilling offer… but I feel your love now. It can no longer be concealed by the likes of mere annoyance and professional discourtesy. Blind though I previously was to it, now cognizant, I cannot ignore the strength of it. Your strength of feeling. When you touch me, it is… overwhelming. Nearly overpowering.”

McCoy scooted sideways in his chair, as though some calamity of fate should cause such an accidental collision of flesh. Then he saw, finally, the turmoil in dark and pleading eyes.

“Intense, but not… unwelcome.”

“Jesus, Spock, I’m not a mind-reader; just tell me what you mean before I fall apart here…”

“When you kissed me…” McCoy jumped at the accusation that wasn’t an accusation. “…I felt your love. A long-standing, deep-seated devotion. Hidden by years of concentrated frustration, by placing adversarial relations before those of friendship or profession. Leonard, when you kissed me, I found the answers to what I’d questioned since Taurus II.”

“Since Taurus? Since the _Galileo_?” McCoy sighed with disgust at his own disability to dissemble. “Yeah, well…” His voice was so dry. So quiet. “Now you know. …I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything I oughtta be. Sure I’ve lost track by now…”

“I do not desire your apologies. You have never wronged me in any way that you did not soon make up for.”

“Nice speech. Whaduya want, then?”

“I want to tell you that when you kissed me, I felt your love.” Spock faltered, his face the very picture of uncertainty. “And it made me happy.”

McCoy wiped irritably at his eyes, pushing away the new threat of tears. He clamped his hands tightly and pressed them against his mouth, just as he pressed shut his eyes. He breathed deep, but let the air out in shuddering breaths that demanded time, more time. He spoke, the words mangled by his accent and his pressing hands. “How? How could I…”

“I felt the resounding pulse of this love between us. It is not one-sided, Leonard.” A pause followed the earth-shifting statement, as though the very substance of the world changed around them, or because of them. “I have, at times, been remiss in my Vulcan meditations. Sometimes, when a thing is too strong,” and now even Spock’s voice was shaking, “I did not control it as I should have, but suppressed it completely.”

Eager eyes blinked but never wavered from their desperate focus on Spock’s face.

He had to look away from that demanding gaze, saying instead, “I studied many facets of earth. As a child, my Mother insisted upon sharing her culture with me, to help me understand the human aspect of my heritage. One ritual she insisted upon was the reading of stories to me before bed. She read me many human legends and I have recently recalled the ones termed ‘fairy tales,’ which I found to be the most ridiculous, emotional, and illogical of all. But there were these stories of enchanted kisses.” He shook his head in bewilderment, looking at the floor between them. “I never doubted the concept a false one.” And he could not, for a moment, go on. He had to dig for the strength to finish. “But you’ve shown me there is magic in kisses.”

“Spock,” he gasped, half laughing, half crazy, “are you sayin’ I’m your Prince Charming?”

“You can be very charming, Leonard, but I am under no illusions regarding your lineage.”

McCoy was too twisted up with hope and terror to answer, even to laugh.

“I love you, Doctor McCoy.”

“Sweet Jesus,” McCoy swore, bowing his head, his tension collapsing into disbelieving euphoria. “Heaven seems mighty closer’n hell right now, even if y’are the spittin’ image uh the devil, Spock.”

Then, the alien reached out, his long-fingered hand pale and trembling.

In a bewitching moment when McCoy couldn’t breathe for the rightness of it, he took the hand, wrapping the warm fingers in his own, clammy and weak. “By all that’s good in this universe, Spock, I love ya.”

“Then please, let me show you what my words cannot.”

With only the barest idea of what he was agreeing to, the Doctor nodded.

The grasp of their hands broke, and those spidery fingers reached for his face with – McCoy realized in wonder – reverence. Firm points of physical contact established a link the likes of which neither could have expected or prepared for.

The raw opening of self was painful, was wondrous. It was the bleeding and merging of so many things both human and Vulcan, both negative and positive, that the layered intermingling was altogether overwhelming, a creation and connection without awareness of time or space. It melded two wholly opposing creatures into an acceptance of self and of other that was barely retained within those very boundaries of separate consciences.

Suddenly, love was the only thing in the world that made sense.

Before the terror and delight of it could enthrall them into something from which they couldn’t escape, they began the tedious, the regretful, the aching process of withdrawing each tendril of consciousness. So gentle, the slipping away, so sad. They hardly remembered the physical world that awaited them, though they strove with persistent doggedness to return to it.

Until all that remained was the touch of firm fingers to human flesh, the touch of dark loving eyes to bright ones, the touch of ordered mind to comparative chaos.

The hands lifted away with a whisper, and tears fell in disbelieving streams from McCoy’s eyes.

Spock’s face was indescribable. If anything, he looked awed.

Like an impulse, like a reflex, unavoidable, McCoy shot forward, unable to stop himself or do anything else. Again, he caught the corner of Spock’s mouth with his lips.

Vulcan skin was so hot.

He drew away only to re-center himself, claiming a proper kiss, the kind made of friction and mess and fervor.

McCoy’s hands slid up strong arms and further, along a heated neck and into irresistible hair.

Spock explored the kiss like it was one of his foreign specimens, marveling at each tiny facet of the experience, each touch, each brush, each breath and sigh.

McCoy’s hands grew hot and possessive. They cradled Spock’s head, and then caressed it, and then held it still so he couldn’t pull away.

And Spock -- despite his Vulcan strength -- allowed it. He followed the instinct to brush away hot tears from McCoy's cheeks, to run his long fingers down the man's sides, to hold him and wonder.

=

The End


End file.
